


help me hold on to you

by ShowMeAHero



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Babies, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Kid Fic, Love Confessions, M/M, Physical Abuse, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Stanley Uris Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21738631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: When Eddie gets back to New York, he is hanging on by a very,veryweak thread. His cheek, his abdomen, and his back still hurt pretty much constantly; he misses the Losers, who are essentially his only real friends at all; he can’t stop thinking about Richie, and all that comes with that; he hates his job, which means he’s considering quitting, if he could; and he doesn’t want to see fuckingMyra,especially with the aforementioned twenty-four-seven Richie-themed thought cycle still ongoing.There’s pretty much nothing keeping him in New York, but the one thing that is is the one thing he’ll never give up.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, One-Sided Past Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak
Comments: 52
Kudos: 752





	help me hold on to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thosewerethedaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thosewerethedaze/gifts).



> A commission for [@dana_elaine](https://twitter.com/dana_elaine) on Twitter!
> 
> Title taken from ["The Archer"](https://open.spotify.com/track/3pHkh7d0lzM2AldUtz2x37?si=GWHyrW0sRsOuNE3lu1gIMQ) by Taylor Swift.

When Eddie gets back to New York, he is hanging on by a very,  _ very  _ weak thread. His cheek, his abdomen, and his back still hurt pretty much constantly; he misses the Losers, who are essentially his only real friends at all; he can’t stop thinking about Richie, and all that comes with that; he hates his job, which means he’s considering quitting, if he could; and he doesn’t want to see fucking  _ Myra,  _ especially with the aforementioned twenty-four-seven Richie-themed thought cycle still ongoing.

There’s pretty much nothing keeping him in New York, but the one thing that is is the one thing he’ll never give up.

“Hey,” Eddie says, quietly, in their darkened apartment. His flight got in after midnight, and, when he got back, Myra was already asleep in their bed. He’s been gone for three weeks, and she never even came to visit him at the hospital in Derry. Not once. He asked her to come. She rarely even answered the phone.

He hadn’t wanted to see her, though. He’d wanted to see his son, because, really, the only people he gave a shit about anymore were Sam and the Losers.

Eddie had never really considered what he’d be like as a father, because he really also never considered having sex with Myra. He didn’t find it to be an interesting concept or an activity he wants to do. They’ve had sex twice: once on their wedding night, and once fifteen months ago, when they were both drunk out of their minds at his office holiday party, and Myra had come on to him in his office. They’d had sex, and he’d immediately vomited into his wastepaper basket afterwards, while the words _ fuck, I think I’m gay, fuck, what do I do, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck—  _ just, on a loop, echo through his head.

He makes himself focus on the crib in front of him. Eddie had put the nursery together himself, while Myra micromanaged him. He hadn’t really expected anything else, but it does mean he knows that all of Sam’s furniture is more than strong enough to protect him.

When he leans over his crib to look at him, Sam’s awake. It’s been a  _ long  _ fucking three weeks, the longest he’s ever been apart from his son, since he’s only five months old. Well, six months old, now, and Eddie’s sort of shocked at the difference three weeks can make. He’s bigger, he’s smiling right at him, and doesn’t really look much like Eddie or Myra. Honestly, he just looks a lot like himself. Eddie prefers it that way.

“Hi, bud,” Eddie says softly. He lifts Sam up, brushes his hair back out of his face. He’s glad that Sam doesn’t fight him, because he had been somewhat afraid that he would’ve forgotten him while he was gone. Sam just turns his face into Eddie’s shoulder, though, and settles there. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to be gone so long. I thought it’d only be a couple of days, but that’s my bad.”

Looking down at Sam, now that his memories of his childhood are back, Eddie can’t help but sort of see himself, even if they don’t look much alike. He can see a little boy just like him, anyways, with trusting eyes, vulnerable and innocent; he then looks at Myra and, horrifyingly, he sees his mother. His fucking  _ mother. _

It’s like fucking déjà vu, with one difference: Sam’s dad is still here. Sam’s not alone, not like Eddie had been.

Eddie has a terrifying vision, all of a sudden. He sees his mother screaming at him, but it’s Myra screaming at Sam, all while Eddie watches. Abruptly, he can’t stand the thought of even  _ living  _ with Myra for another day, let alone still being married to her. He hadn’t remembered how horrible his childhood had really been, before he went back to Derry, but now it’s all come flooding back, and he finds himself completely unwilling to let history repeat itself. He may not be where he wants to be, at age forty, but he’ll be fucking  _ damned  _ if he lets the same thing happen to his kid.

“Alright, fuck this,” Eddie mutters, eyes squeezed shut. After a moment, he looks down at Sam again. Sam just looks back up at him with big, dark eyes. “Fuck this.  _ Fuck  _ this.”

Sam doesn’t reply, but Eddie gets up anyways, like Sam had encouraged him, like he’d agreed. Eddie’s not sure how much better a parent he’ll be, honestly, but he has to be better than his mother. Or Myra. He  _ has  _ to be.

He’s not sure where he’ll go, or what to do. Maybe he should go to Richie, but he’s all the way out in Los Angeles. He’s not sure who else can help. Ben and Bev are having a baby of their own, so they have stuff already. Richie’s far away. Bill and Mike are still in Pennsylvania. Richie probably doesn’t want a kid in his house. Stan and Patty told him not to be a stranger. Richie, Richie,  _ Richie. _

“You’re home?” Myra says from the doorway of the nursery. After a beat, Eddie turns to look at her. There’s a moment where he almost says  _ Sorry, Mom,  _ and his heart starts to beat up into his throat. “What the  _ hell—” _

“Stop it,” Eddie snaps. Myra just stares at him. It’s exactly like when he was thirteen and found out his mother had been giving him fake medications, except now he’s  _ forty _ and finding out he maybe shouldn’t be married to this woman. He remembers the office holiday party again, when he had had sex with her for the second time in sixteen years and came thinking  _ fuck, I’m gay. _ He remembers, too, his mother screaming at him, and locking in his room, and Richie climbing in through his window to break him out— 

And he remembers Richie.

And he can’t stay here any more.

“Stop it,” Eddie repeats, softer this time. “I can’t— I can’t do this anymore. Myra, I can’t stay here and do this anymore.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Myra demands. “Eddie, you  _ need  _ me—”

“No,” Eddie interrupts her, his ears ringing. He’s fourteen, and he’s forty; he’s locked in his bedroom, and he’s standing in his son’s nursery; he’s screaming at his mother, and he’s leaving his wife. “I want a divorce. And Sam— I want full custody of Sam—”

“Eddie, you  _ can’t,”  _ Myra says, and Eddie shakes his head, flipping on the light in the nursery and starting to pack everything he lays eyes on into Sam’s bags. “What are you  _ doing?” _

“I’m getting his shit together,” Eddie tells her. After a moment, he stops. “No, wait, what the fuck  _ am  _ I doing?” He looks to Myra. They just stare at each other.

“Don’t,” she says.

_ “You  _ should leave,” he tells her. Her face starts to go red, but she doesn’t cry; instead, she starts to shout. Eddie doesn’t even hear what she says, thrown back hard into being a child getting screamed at by his mother. He remembers his mother throwing things at him, so he turns away, covering Sam’s body with his own moments before Myra throws a hard book at them off of Sam’s bookshelf.

Eddie turns to her, eyes wide. The silence is so thick that Eddie thinks he could literally  _ shatter _ it by moving. His shoulder is aching where the corner of the picture book had caught him, but he doesn’t think twice about it. His blood is fucking  _ boiling. _

He exhales, then turns back to her and says, “Get the  _ fuck  _ out.”

“You can’t live without me,” Myra tells her. It’s only Sam’s weight in his arms that keeps him calm enough to not pull her out of the apartment himself. “Who will—”

“Get,” Eddie says again,  _ “out.” _

She goes, this time, grabs a bag and leaves, the front door clicking shut behind her. Eddie doesn’t move. He knows she’ll be back tomorrow, probably, but he’ll just have to cross that bridge when he comes to it. He needs to call his lawyer, and change his locks, and— fuck, he doesn’t even  _ know. _

He also needs to fucking  _ sleep,  _ and so does Sam, because it’s two o’clock in the morning. Eddie soothes him back to sleep, then takes him to the recliner in the living room to lay down with him. He can’t stand being in their bedroom, but he doesn’t want to leave Sam alone in his nursery.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s grounding, almost. He pulls his phone out to see a text from Richie.

_ get in ok, eds?,  _ the text says. One-handed, he taps out a reply.

**Myra threw a book at me so I kicked her out and told her I wanted a divorce,** he sends. His phone rings, two seconds later.

“Are you okay?” Richie demands.

“I’m fine,” Eddie says.

“I’ll kill her,” Richie says. “I swear, I’ll come out there and—”

“It’s fine, Richie,” Eddie tells him, because it’s comforting him to comfort Richie. His heart’s still pounding, but Sam is asleep and the apartment is dark. He’s just trying to chill out enough to sleep. “I’ll call my lawyer in the morning.”

“It is not  _ fine,”  _ Richie exclaims. Eddie turns down the call volume on his phone. “Eddie, she threw a fucking  _ book  _ at you. Do you need a place to go? Are you—”

_ “I _ kicked  _ her  _ out,” he says. “I'm still at home. I’m fine. I don’t— It’ll be fine.”

Richie doesn’t know about Sam. Eddie hadn’t told  _ any _ of the Losers about Sam, since they had all commented on how strange it was that none of them had been able to conceive children. It makes him look at Sam twice, but he doesn’t really care either way. As far as Eddie’s concerned, Sam is his son. It made him not want to explain or be questioned about it by the other Losers, though, and so he just said— pretty much nothing, about Myra, and nothing at  _ all,  _ about Sam. Just in case.

“What can I do to help?” Richie asks. “I want to help. Let me help.”

“I’m just going to get some sleep,” Eddie tells him. “Can I call you in the morning?”

“Anything you want, Eds,” Richie replies. Eddie’s heart starts pounding again, just as he was finally starting to calm down. “You know that.”

Eddie’s quiet for a second before he says, “Richie—” and then stops. He’s exhausted, and he’s already dropped  _ I’m getting divorced  _ on Richie tonight. Probably best not to push it with  _ I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m gay and into you  _ on top of that. He had just spent three _weeks_ with Richie, recovering in Derry. He's already pretty sure he knows how he feels. Now it's just a matter of finding the right time to tell him, if there _is_ a right time. Either way, there's no way _this_ is that time.

“Yeah, Eddie?” Richie asks, when Eddie doesn’t finish, lost in his own head.

It takes a second. Then, though, Eddie finally says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Richie says. “Anytime. I mean that.”

“Talk to you in the morning, Rich,” Eddie tells him, and he still wants to say  _ I’m gay and I’m into you, please be into me, too,  _ but he doesn’t.

“Take care of yourself, Eds,” Richie says in return. It takes Eddie a second to hang up, but he does, before Richie can. He clutches his phone to his chest and just  _ breathes,  _ for a second, eyes closed. It makes him drowsy, a little, so he just keeps doing it until he’s asleep.

* * *

A knock on Eddie’s door wakes him up, sending him rocketing to his feet. He catches Sam easily on his chest, mercifully doesn’t fucking drop him or anything, and looks nervously to the door. Sam’s still sleeping.

“Eds, open up!” Richie’s voice calls through the door. Eddie’s hair stands on end, goosebumps breaking out across his skin. He looks down at Sam, panicked. “Eddie? Are you okay?” His voice drops, and then he says, “Shit,  _ fuck,  _ I don’t even—  _ Fuck,”  _ and then Eddie’s phone is ringing on the floor.

After a moment, Eddie bends over and picks it up. He darts silently down the hallway, bringing himself to the nursery so Richie can’t hear him, and answers it. “Hello?”

“Eds, hey,” Richie says, breathless through the phone. “Uhh— Don’t freak out, okay?”

“No promises,” Eddie says, dry, slightly hysterical.

“I came out to New York,” Richie tells him. As soon as he says it, Eddie realizes how fucking absurd he’s being, hiding in the nursery. He’s  _ forty years old,  _ for fuck’s sake. And  _ besides,  _ clown-induced amnesia or not, Richie is his best friend; Eddie feels that in his fucking bones, not that he’d ever say it out loud.

Eddie hangs up his phone, then goes out to his living room and opens the front door, Sam still sleeping against his chest. He stares up at Richie, almost daring him to comment. Richie opens his mouth, then closes it, after a beat, his brow furrowing.

“I have a son,” Eddie says, because he feels like he should.

“No fucking shit, you fuckhead,” Richie says heatedly. “Can I hold him?”

Eddie keeps staring for a second, bewildered, before he nods and holds Sam out. Richie drops his bag in the doorway and takes Sam carefully, tucking him into the crook of his elbow, stroking his hair back out of his face. Eddie’s heart starts pounding all over again.

“Come in,” Eddie says. He grabs Richie’s bag off the ground and flings it at the sofa, letting Richie follow behind him. After a moment of thought, Eddie goes back to shut and lock the front door himself. “What fucking time is it?”

“Like, seven,” Richie tells him. “I got in at around six-fifteen, so— Yeah, just after seven.”

“Yeah, why the  _ fuck  _ are you here, actually?” Eddie asks, because he thinks that is a  _ very  _ good fucking question, and probably should have been his  _ first  _ question.

“You sounded like you needed help,” Richie says. “And I wasn’t doing anything else.”

Eddie stares at Richie Tozier, holding his son and staring at him so earnestly, saying dumb fucking shit like  _ I flew out to New York on a whim because I had an empty schedule and you sounded sad on the phone.  _ His stomach flips.

“I  _ said  _ don’t freak out,” Richie complains. “Fuck, Eddie, just— Yell at me if you’re mad, alright, I just couldn’t  _ not  _ help—”

“I’m not mad,” Eddie cuts him off, confused. “Why the fuck would I be mad, asshole? This is, like, the nicest thing you’ve ever—” He stops, then remembers fourteen-year-old Richie sneaking into his window when they were teenagers, breaking him out when his mom had locked him in. He looks at forty-year-old Richie standing in his living room today, having flown across the country just to try and  _ help him. _

“That’s a pretty sad life, Eds, I hate to tell you,” Richie teases him. He looks back down at Sam and says, “You’ve got a cute kid out of it, though. Does he have a name, or are you waiting to see if he survives the plague before you get too attached?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Eddie says, even as he comes a couple of steps closer. “His name is Sam.”

“Just Sam?” Richie asks. “Like Cher?”

“You’re such a fucking ass,” Eddie snaps. It feels better than anything else has, in the last twelve hours, bickering with Richie. It’s the most normal thing he’s done since he got back to New York. “His name is Samuel Edward Kaspbrak.”

“Sam it is,” Richie says with a grin. “Hello, Sam.”

“I think I’m gay,” Eddie says, because Richie came all the way out here, and he feels like maybe full disclosure is best. Richie looks up at him, eyes wide.

“Then how the fuck did we end up with this?” Richie asks, jostling Sam a little. “No offense, kid.”

“I had sex with Myra twice,” Eddie tells him.

“What, like, unprotected?” Richie asks.

“No.”

_ “Total?”  _ Richie demands. Eddie frowns at him, and Richie just whistles.

“Okay, jagoff,  _ look—”  _ Eddie starts to snap, feeling his face burn, but Richie waves him off.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Richie says. “If you’re gay, Eds, there’s nothing wrong with only sleeping with a woman twice.”

“We were married for sixteen  _ years,”  _ Eddie tells him.

“Everybody makes mistakes,” Richie replies. Eddie’s face is still burning, but he finds himself laughing. Richie cracks a grin, then says, “I  _ know  _ I’m gay, if that helps.”

Eddie’s heart catches again, and his laughter stops. They stare at each other again.

“I  _ am  _ gay,” Eddie says, because he wants to assert himself, suddenly. “And I’m getting a divorce and I have a son.”

“That’s a lot more than I've got,” Richie tells him. They’re quiet for a moment, then says, “I really do want to help, Eds. What can I do?”

Eddie looks down at Sam, gets close enough that he can touch his cheek with the pad of his thumb. He can feel Sam’s breath through his nose against his hand. “I don’t know. I still have to call my lawyer and all of that, I haven’t done anything yet.”

“I’ll help,” Richie says. “And— Eds, I know you probably just texted me because I had already texted you, so, I mean— If you really don’t want me here, just tell me. No hard feelings, I’ll go. I know it’s stupid that I came, but I didn’t realize  _ how  _ stupid until I was already on the plane. Too little, too late.”

“Title of your sex tape,” Eddie replies. Richie’s face lights up when he smiles.

“Good one,” he tells him, grinning.

“I didn’t just text you because you had texted me,” Eddie tells him, now that Richie’s not being so weirdly serious. He doesn’t know what to do with Richie acting more serious than he has with him in decades. “I told you what happened because I trust you.”

“I don’t mean you, like, don’t like me or anything,” Richie assures him. “I just mean— If you want Ben, or Bill, or someone— You know. Someone responsible. I get that. I can—”

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Eddie interrupts him, and Richie’s face falls. “No, that’s not what I mean, you dipshit. I mean you’re so fucking  _ stupid—” _

“Oh, thanks for clearing that up—”

_ “Because,”  _ Eddie continues, “I wasn’t thinking about who was most  _ responsible,  _ dumbass. I was thinking about who I wanted to talk to, and the only person I could—”

Eddie stops himself, but Richie’s eyes are burning holes in his face, magnified by the thick fucking Coke-bottle lenses of his glasses. Eddie’s just an ant under a magnifying glass.

“The only person you could what?” Richie asks, when Eddie doesn’t continue.

“The only person I could be with, right now,” Eddie finishes. He doesn’t know how to word it better, so it doesn’t sound overwhelming or stupidly childish.

“What do you mean,  _ be with?”  _ Richie asks. “Like, see? Because—”

“I don’t  _ know,  _ Richie,” Eddie says, feeling like he’s going a little out of his mind. Richie looks at him with those big fucking eyes of his, trying to read his face like he always used to. Sam is still in his arms. They’re Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier, Eddie realizes, in a wild moment, and they’re forty years old, living in New York, and they’re both gay, and Richie is  _ holding Eddie’s son.  _ It’s almost too fucking much.

“Aw, hey, buddy,” Richie says softly. Eddie looks up at Richie’s face again, but he’s not talking to him; Richie’s talking to Sam, who’s just blinked his eyes open and yawned, looking up at Richie. He looks confused, but he’s so fucking laid-back, the total opposite of Eddie. He doesn’t even cry. “Good morning. Sorry about this ugly mug being the first thing you see today, but, hey, worse things have happened, I’m sure. Actually— Well, you’re kind of small. This could conceivably be the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“Probably not,” Eddie tells him. “Myra’s brother dropped him once.”

“I’ll kill Myra’s whole family, if I have to,” Richie says without hesitation. He looks back down at Sam, then says, “How could anyone fuck up wanting to be  _ your  _ mom, little dude? You’re tight as hell.”

Richie sounds like a fucking dipshit, but he’s looking at Sam how Eddie looks at Sam, warm and protective when he hugs him a little bit closer, telling him some story about the woman who sat beside him on the plane. Richie’s so long and tall, so broad, so  _ big,  _ and Sam’s so small in his hands. Eddie’s almost dizzy, looking at them. He wonders how small  _ he  _ would be in Richie’s hands.

“You got a cool kid here,” Richie says, snapping him out of his thoughts. “How could someone not like this kid? Fuck, I’ve known him for ten minutes and I love him like my own, man, I’d kill someone for him.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, because his heart’s pounding again. He’s not just  _ maybe  _ gay, and he’s not  _ possibly  _ into Richie, he lets himself acknowledge, all in one moment. He’s  _ definitely  _ gay and he’s actually, potentially,  _ in love  _ with Richie.

“Sorry if that was weird,” Richie says into the silence. Eddie’s bewildered, before he remembers what Richie had just said, and the fact that Eddie hadn’t responded at all. “I just mean—”

“When I say  _ be with,”  _ Eddie cuts him off, returning to Richie’s question from earlier, “I mean  _ be with.” _

Richie looks at him, just  _ looks.  _ His cheeks start to turn red, and he says, “Eds, I—”

“I mean  _ with,”  _ Eddie says firmly. “When I say  _ be with,  _ I mean  _ be with,  _ Richie. Fuck, I— I want to be with you, and I wanted to be with you when we were kids, and I’m not just maybe gay, I’m just— I  _ know  _ I’m gay and I think I’m in love with you and I’m so sorry, I meant to maybe build up to telling you this once I got it together, and probably actually got divorced and maybe moved, but I just— I just think maybe you should know. That. Maybe.”

Richie stares at him, his arms still holding Sam close, before he says, “Eds, you motherfucking  _ dirtbag,  _ how  _ dare  _ you say the hottest thing I’ve ever heard while I’m holding  _ your  _ fucking het-sex baby.”

“Don’t call him that, you fucking dickwad,” Eddie hisses. His heart’s pounding into his ribs so hard he thinks it might just break through and kill him instantly. “What do you mean, the hottest—”

Richie ducks down and catches Eddie’s mouth, kisses him without being able to use his hands to hold Eddie in place. He’s still holding Sam close; Eddie can feel that he’s trying not to jostle him too much. Overwhelmed, emotional, Eddie grabs Richie’s face in his hands and kisses him back.

“How could I fucking  _ not  _ love you?” Richie asks, against Eddie’s lips. Eddie pulls back, but Richie just chases after him, kissing him again. “How could I not fucking love both of you, Eds? Are you  _ insane?  _ I’ve been in love with you since I was fucking  _ nine.  _ The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do is let you leave Derry without me, and I had to do that motherfucking  _ twice.  _ I could be a step-dad after that, no fucking  _ sweat.” _

Eddie laughs, feeling light, almost delirious. “Since you were  _ nine?  _ No fucking way.”

“Nah, you’re right,” Richie says, adjusting his grip on Sam.

“I’m—”

“When did we meet?” Richie asks. “You were, what, just turning two? Then I’ve been in love with you  _ that  _ long, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie’s still going to need to call his lawyer. He’ll need to change the locks, and file for divorce, and fight for custody, and move, and get a new job, and get remarried, and maybe have more kids and get a big house and—

_ One step a time,  _ Eddie tells himself, then kisses Richie again.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Eddie asks, when Richie lifts his head to breathe and adjust his glasses.

“Yeah,” Richie tells him. He grins. “Besides, I’m not really doing anything else.”

Eddie thumps him hard on the arm that’s not holding Sam’s head, but Richie just laughs, shifting Sam’s weight again to just one arm so he can cup Eddie’s cheek when he kisses him again. Eddie clutches Richie’s shirt in his hands, inhales the sterile scent of airplane clinging to Richie’s skin, and thinks,  _ fuck, thank God he came, thank fuck I know him. _

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon)! I'm currently taking commissions there!


End file.
